


uneasy lies the head

by chanterie



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-28
Updated: 2015-03-28
Packaged: 2018-03-20 02:22:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3633099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chanterie/pseuds/chanterie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>there is a surprising amount of grief and longing involved in becoming the queen of ferelden.</p>
            </blockquote>





	uneasy lies the head

**Author's Note:**

> a bit of an experiment in style. not sure yet if it worked.

**V.** Anora accuses her of crowning Alistair for selfish reasons. Even as the words sting, Laoise admits to herself that she’s not wholly wrong, even if she’s not wholly right either. Alistair will be a good king, once he grows into it. And she--

She does not trust Anora. Did not trust Anora even before she turned on them. Does not trust anyone except herself and Alistair and Leliana. She has seen the cruelties of the world, has seen what politics can do when the ones in power only want power. And she--

The Deep Roads linger in her bones. Not because she can feel, distantly, the darkspawn gathering and the Archdemon calling. Instead, it is the memory of when she huddled next to Alistair during their one, brief moment of respite. She couldn’t feel the press of him against her side through her armor, but he took off one gauntlet so he could run his fingers through the mess of her hair.

“I don’t want to die here,” she whispered, voice catching and breaking. Desperate. “It’s dark and dank and _miserable_. Alistair, I--”

“Shhh.” He pulled her closer and pressed a kiss to the one clean spot on her forehead. “I know.”

She does not trust anyone and she is so tired of trying to protect people--her family, her country--and only being presented with betrayal and the inevitability of her death in a hole somewhere. Another nameless, forgotten Warden whose sacrifices went unremarked.

She wants more than that. Alistair deserves better than that. And she wants, so desperately, to be able to do things well. To do them right. To actually have the power to protect everything she loves and not have to hand it over to someone she would not trust with her shoes.

If that means she is crowning Alistair out of selfish reasons, so be it.

 

**VI.** Their days are spent delegating, managing, and learning as they go. There is cleanup to be done--the city is a complete and utter mess--and there are people to be won over. For all his thoughts to the contrary, Alistair is a natural. He charms the nobility and common-folk alike with his compassion, his self-deprecation, and his smart remarks.

Laoise has been learning to play politics since she was young and her father first brought her to Orlais to meet with the family of an enemy-turned-ally. She smiles when she is supposed to, finds the right words, and slips herself into the role of noblewoman as easy as breathing.

But it’s not as familiar as it used to be. She finds herself longing for the days just after Ostagar where she reveled in the fact that she could be free with her words. She was just a Grey Warden. A traitor with no reputation to ruin.

Now she is a hero. She is to be queen consort. No one remembers that Bryce Cousland’s daughter was always a spitfire under her polite mask. Not until she slips.

 

**III.** Alistair pulls her to himself in the evenings. All the worried looks she catches him sending her way are finally given words when they retreat to the one private space they have now. He cups her cheeks in his palms and kisses her softly.

“I’ll be alright,” she says, calloused palms catching on the fine fabric of his shirt. “I just--I need to adjust. I need to find balance.”

Alistair nods. “I know.”

“I need--”

She doesn’t know what she needs. That’s alright. That’s what he is for.

He lays her down on the sheets (soft and warm and inviting and ridiculously indulgent after a year spent sleeping in a tent) and kisses her until she can’t remember her own name. He undresses her with the same precision he once used to remove her from her armor. Months of hushed encounters in the dead of night and moments stolen behind trees and ruins have taught him her body. With lips and fingers and tongue he pries wordless cries out of her until, shaking, she comes undone. Until she _relaxes_.

It’s then that she can give him a real smile, press her lips to his, and say “I love you,” without some part of it being a calculation.

They talk, after. Meaningless bits of chatter. Stupid things Jamie’s done like chew up Eamon’s shoes again. A recounting of Leliana’s latest letter or something funny Wynne said the other day. Through it all, her palm is pressed above his heart and he holds her to himself like she may disappear at any moment.

During the day, she teaches him the nuances of the Game. At night, he teaches her how to stay real.

 

**II.** It’s more difficult than she thought it would be to return the sword and the shield of Highever to Fergus. Laoise has gotten used to seeing them on Alistair’s back. They are a memento of her dead family, and a tangible connection to her new one.

That scuff there is from a training session with Leliana. The dent on the corner is from that one battle where Ze--the elf almost died. (Laoise has not spoken his name since she drew her blade across his throat. She is not sure that betrayal will ever cease to sting.) Alistair has a scar on the underside of his jaw from where he hit himself with the shield, once.

When Fergus returns home (and Highever is still home to her; Denerim has not yet reached that place in her mind, even after months of living there) a small part of her shrivels. Everything in Denerim is new and not-new. Familiar and yet so alien. She craves her mother’s advice, her father’s steady hands on her shoulders, Oriana’s sly remarks at the dinner table. She misses nights spent around the fire, listening to Leliana and Wynne tell stories. She misses trying absurd sounding drinks with Oghren. She misses dancing with Alistair under the stars.

But she has a duty. She will carry it out with her head held high and not a sign of weakness to be found. And if her hand grips Alistair’s just a little too tightly in the moments when homesickness pierces her heart like a lance... well. He understands.

 

**I.** “It’s heavier than I thought it would be,” Laoise says once, in the wee hours of the morning. In her fingers, she twirls her crown. It’s a strong, golden thing. Bold. Completely and utterly Fereldan in its shape.

Alistair watches her from the bed. He knows she’s not just talking about the physical weight. “Any regrets?” he asks.

It takes her a long moment to answer. She thinks of camp. Of her mother. Of nights spent scheming and smiling at obnoxious courtiers until it’s okay for her to--politely--tell them to fuck off. Of the Deep Roads. She thinks of Anora, released from the tower and given a position of adviser. Laoise does not trust her, but her insight is too valuable to be wasted.

She looks at her husband, sprawled out over the covers. The moonlight caresses his bare skin and highlights the lovebites she left on his thighs and shoulders the night before. This man--this stupid, ridiculous man that she loves with every bit of her heart--is hers. And the history books will remember him as a just king. As a Warden who was not afraid of sacrifice. As a good man. His tale will not die with him in the Deep Roads.

Laoise smiles.

“Not a one.”


End file.
